Partridge in a Pear Tree
by DrawMeASheep
Summary: Complete. Spoilers for Faith. Tony's tribulations in obtaining a gift for his Secret Santa assignee.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: You're a three-decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwich with arsenic sauce.

Spoilers: _Faith_.

Summary: Missing bit from the ep about how Tony goes about discovering and obtaining the doll, in three(?) parts. Probably three. One…two…five! Three, sire! Three!

* * *

Nursing home smell was the worst. Ointments and antiseptics and unidentifiable mashed-up foods and…this was the room number the nurse in the Peanuts Christmas scrubs at the desk had mentioned. Right. Deep breath, rocking chair by the window, lead with the candy. "Mrs. Bromstead, good morning, my name is…"

"Why, Mr. Van den Hoogenband! You don't have to introduce yourself! We met just last month at the parent-teacher conference. My little girl…oh!" The elderly woman ran an impossibly frail, shaking hand through white wisps of cotton candy covering her head. "Something's happened to Delores, hasn't it?"

"No, no, Delores is perfectly fine."

"The principal of the school does not make visits home over minor matters, sir. As a veteran high school mathematics teacher, I should know!"

"Trust me, Mrs. Bromstead. Everything is just fine." Panic. Wasn't this something Peanuts nurse should have mentioned? Wait, whose anxious breathing was that? Trying to relax, he put on his best smile and extended the box of candy he'd almost forgotten bringing. "I just thought as a, uh, professional, uh, courtesy from, uh, one educator to another, I would bring these…" For all his experience in deception, this was quite possibly the second guiltiest he'd ever felt perpetuating a lie.

The woman's wrinkled face lit up, however, after she had squinted at the box for a few long seconds. "Why, Mr. Van den Hoogenband! You must have talked to Bill Stapleton at St. Ignatius to have brought cherry cordials! I haven't had a treat like this since my Stanley…" she trailed off as her eyes misted over. Was she having some kind of medical emergency? Just before the call button came within reach, her expression cleared and she continued as if nothing had been wrong, "Is there some occasion for you to bring me sweets, Mr…may I call you Peter?"

"Of course." Sure, why the hell not?

"Lovely. And you'll call me Agnes. My, it was so nice of you to bring these, if I could only get them open…"

"Allow me." He easily tore the cellophane wrapping that had been giving her arthritic fingers trouble.

"Such a gentleman. I can see why you're the youngest principal in the district."

"Uh, well, everyone should have a little candy at Christmas. If you can't splurge on the holidays…"

"I can't believe it's Christmas already." She held up a chocolate in its cheerful red foil wrapping. "I'm afraid there won't be many treats this year, what with Stanley hurt and out of work. We may not even get a tree…" The small artificial tree with blinking multicolored lights on the countertop must have been too far for weak eyes to see. "Poor Delores. She knows something isn't quite right, but when you're eight, you don't understand why Mommy and Daddy are fighting, just that…oh. Do you have children, Peter?"

"No." It was probably odd that a school administrator was single and childless. "Not yet. My wife and I haven't gotten around to starting our family yet."

She smiled kindly. "With love like that in your eyes, I'm sure you'll have a wonderful family. I'll say a prayer that you never have to go through trying times. If only Stanley hadn't injured his back…"

The box of cherry cordials was half empty when Peanuts nurse ended the conversation to announce lunch. Eleven o'clock lunch.

Much as the notion disquieted in his line of work, he hoped he would never grow old.

* * *

Tony passed a hot cup to Ziva and trudged to his desk to remove his coat, not noticing that she was on his heels, probably complaining about the fact that he was late and bearing lattes instead of on time with tea. He sank into his chair and stared at his blotter for a few seconds. His whole body felt heavy and the gingerbread latte wasn't helping. Some pick-me-up. Maybe Ziva was right about tea. He threw a weary glance around the bullpen. "Gibbs?"

He didn't have the energy to jump when she answered from behind him, "Spending time with Jack."

"Mc…uh, Mc…Gee?" he finished, unable to come up with anything creative while lacking visual inspiration. Ziva's palm was suddenly pressed to his forehead. "What?"

"You seem off." He leaned into her hand, allowing it to hold his head up. "At least you are not hot."

"Yeah, well, you…you look fat in those pants." Her hand snapping his had back woke him more effectively than any jolt of caffeine. Her face hovered threateningly over his. "Hey, you insulted me first!"

"How? By checking to see if you have a fever?"

"Ah." At least he now knew why she'd been touching his head. "Right, well…I thought you meant I wasn't _hot_ hot, not just, uh, hot, like, temperature hot and I didn't know why you were denying my hotness, which, when you really take the time to…" He suddenly realized his head was still being held at an uncomfortable angle. "Right, so, I was just responding to the perceived insult with a stock insult that in no way reflects how you actually look in those pants, which is not at all fat. In fact, you could put on ten pounds and still not look fat, because that's how good you look in those pants." She raised an eyebrow and maintained her hold on his head. "Too far?"

"Oh yes." She shoved his head back into a neutral position. "But I will let it glide as you are the one who made the idiomatic error on this occasion."

He bit back the instinct to correct her and cracked his neck. "Gimme a break. I've had a rough morning."

"You went out for coffee an hour and a half ago and just got back. You were not answering your phone. If Director Vance were not in charge, I would have been worried that you were involved in another undercover mission."

Ouch. In spite of his newfound alertness, he really didn't feel up to getting into that one. "Y'know, normal people worry about things like car accidents when their friends disappear with no explanations."

She shrugged. "I assumed that if you had been in some sort of accident, the police would have contacted us here." She changed her position to the corner of his desk, where she could look down at him disapprovingly. "Why were you gone so long?"

"For your information, I was on an NCIS-related mission, one I accepted when I signed up for the Secret Santa gift exchange…"

"Because you thought you could somehow rig the selection so you could force Agent Kenney to accept a romantic dinner as a 'gift'?"

He pictured the petite brunette analyst. "Huh. I was actually shooting for Marla Roberts from the switchboard, but Agent Kenney…that could have worked too. Would have learned her first name, anyway. But none of that matters, because karma put me with Delores Bromstead, who…" He found it hard to voice the negative after his experience that morning.

"So have you purchased a gift, yes? That is why you were out?" Ziva gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I am proud of you."

He didn't make eye contact and offered her a tight smile in anticipation of the shift from supportive to angry gesture. "Well…I was doing research for the gift."

As expected, her fingers dug into his shoulder uncomfortably. "Tony, you said you would deliver it at six _today_!"

"I know!" He gave her a little shove off his desk and called up the web browser on his computer.

"Do you have any idea what you are going to get her?" She began to pace as he entered his search terms. "My Aunt Nettie sent me some kind of fruit subscription. Apparently I will receive a different fruit each month for the next year."

"Yeah, cool, fruit-of-the-month club," Tony said absently as he realized he would have to refine his search a little if he wanted to deliver the perfect gift in a few short hours.

"Yes! Perhaps you could transfer that to Delores, or order one for her. People enjoy fruit."

"I appreciate the thought, Ziva, but I…boom!" He stared at the picture on the specialty store's website, praying that this was the right thing. "Phone number, phone number…there it is! Okay, we're going on a road trip if this works out, so I suggest you use the little boys' room now."

For once, Ziva didn't ask any questions until she had returned from the bathroom and he had hung up with the confirmation that what he wanted was available and would be held for him. "So where are we going?"

"Spotsylvania," he replied, hurrying to grab the address of the shop off the printer and his coat.

"How far is that?"

"How fast can you drive sixty or so miles?"

Ziva grinned. "We will take my car, _if_…"

He grabbed her shoulders and steered her toward the elevator. "I'll explain everything on the way, maybe even about the Civil War battle that took place there if you behave."

"Not much incentive to behave."

He pressed the call button and chose not to comment because she was obviously waiting for him to escalate with a sexy comeback. Tempting, but he had bigger things to consider at the moment. Said issues had to wait as he returned to the bullpen two elevator rides later. No reason to abandon two perfectly good gingerbread lattes that were only half-drunk.


	2. Chapter 2

"I do not understand. Why did she think you were Dutch?"

Wishing Ziva would pay more attention to the road instead of the strange details of his conversation with Agnes Bromstead, Tony dug his fingers deeper into the cushion of his seat. "I don't know. Does it matter? On the way out, the nurse was explaining to me that it was a good thing I came in the morning because Mama Bromstead likes to watch tapes of the Olympics in the afternoon. _All_ afternoon. Apparently she cycles through the winter and summer games from '84 on. She was halfway through swimming from Barcelona, which may explain part of why she's not too clear on what year it is."

"And does that have something to do with why we are driving to this town for reasons you have not yet clarified?"

"Just making conversation. Most of what the poor old lady said didn't really mean much."

"Well, you repeated your alias several times, so I assumed it was somehow relevant to…do _not_ honk at me!" She reached over him and waved her badge at the passenger window. "Federal agent!"

Tony tried to look apologetic before the man in the Honda faded into the background. "They might be a little less upset if you used your turn signal."

"What?"

"Yeah." He gave up feeling like death was only a lane away – he'd asked her to drive after all – and got back on topic. "Anyway, Mama Bromstead was going on and on about how Delores was eight and I was the elementary school principal and how Papa Bromstead lost his job because he got hurt at work and there wasn't much money for Christmas presents and…"

"Breathe, Tony."

"In Delores' personnel file, it said her dad died in the spring of the year she was eight. I think. My math isn't always so good. Anyway, her psych eval seemed to indicate that she's got some unresolved issues about her dad's death…"

"I really do not think you should have…"

Ignoring the interruption, he went on, "The last Christmas little Delores had with her dad she didn't get the one toy she wanted and he felt bad. Now, I'm no expert, but I think she feels bad that their last Christmas together wasn't better. Maybe that's why her heart is two sizes too small. If I can get her Knee-High Cherry Pie like all the other little girls got that year…"

"Is that like the mile-high lemon meringue from Loeb's Deli?" Ziva interrupted as she careened across all the lanes toward their exit.

"No," he yelped as he was thrown against the door.

"I do not understand the importance, then. Is pie a significant dessert at Christmas?"

"We're not talking about pie!"

"I distinctly heard you say cherry pie."

"How can you hear anything over the squeal of your tires and the blaring horns?" He took a deep breath. She was doing him a favor after all, and they'd made it from DC to here in record time. "Just go right at the end of the ramp."

He extended his arms just in time to catch the momentum the seatbelt couldn't as she made an extraordinary effort to obey the stop sign. Why was she so concerned about this particular sign when the ones displaying the speed limit were so easily ignored? He was just feeling his stomach settle when she accelerated again, asking, "If you had told me yesterday, I would have been happy to bake this pie. I could have found the recipe on the Internet and…"

"Not. About. Pie," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Just take a right at the next street and it'll be on your…there, on the left." The sign for _A Country Doll House_ was visible from a hundred yards away.

As Ziva slowed to make the turn into the small, unpaved parking lot, he saw her look, then look again before slowly following his finger with her eyes to confirm where he was pointing as they idled in the road. "A doll shop?"

He grimaced as he lowered the hand that had been indicating a building decorated to look like a gingerbread house. "Yes. Knee-High Cherry Pie is a doll that little Delores didn't get the Christmas before her dad died. I Googled it and found this place, and the woman I talked to when I called said she has it." He waited until the motor was off before unbuckling his seatbelt. "So that's why we're here."

"Why did you need me here?"

"Because if a guy my age walks into a doll store alone to buy a doll, we seriously consider arresting him."

"I do not remember reading any law stating…"

"Just trust me on this." He got out of the car and leaned on the roof for a moment. "It'd be creepy if I didn't have you with me. Oh, and if the lady asks, my niece has an extensive doll collection her mother started as a little girl and this is what we're getting her as a Christmas gift."

"We?"

He opened the door for her and to let her into the shop first, whispering as she passed him, "Go with it, super spy."

A bell over the door tinkled as they entered a tightly packed room that smelled strongly of sawdust and cinnamon. The lighting was dim, either from lack of light sources or the high shelves lined with dolls in dresses, dolls in costumes, dolls with hats, dolls with pets. From every corner, glass eyes stared at them. Ziva grabbed his arm. "Let's do this quickly, yes?"

Tearing his eyes away from a blue-eyed doll that he was certain was giving him an evil eye, Tony nodded. "Uh huh. I thought it was weird visiting a prison with all the eyes looking at you from cells, but this…this…" As if the scene could not have gotten more surreal, a door near the back of the shop opened to admit a woman that could best be described as, "Mrs. Claus?"

Ziva looked confused by his sudden outburst, but the curly white-haired, apple-cheeked woman beamed from behind her wire-rimmed glasses. "And here I was afraid that no one else would see me in my holiday costume! We don't have to stand on formalities, Cindy will be just fine. What can I do for you nice folks on this very merry Christmas eve?"

"Oh, uh…" He felt a shove in his back as Ziva nudged him toward the counter, still clutching his arm. "My name is Tony DiNozzo, I called earlier about the…"

"Knee-High Cherry Pie!" Cindy finished, throwing her arms into the air. "Oh, I'd nearly given up hope for the girl. So pretty and she's been here for so long just waiting to go to a loving home!"

As she turned to reach for something behind the counter, Ziva hissed into his ear, "Are we here for a doll or a stray cat?"

"Uh…" He didn't have much to add as the woman turned and placed a candy-cane wrapped box on the counter.

"I took the liberty of wrapping her because I haven't been too busy today. All little girls want these days is Barbie and those other plastic horrors, so I'm happy to hear your little niece appreciates quality dolls like Cherry here." She removed the lid, revealing something that would have given Tony nightmares for weeks if he'd seen a cousin open it on Christmas morning. He glanced at Ziva, who was gripping him all the tighter, but her reaction was well masked behind a smile that matched the doll's. Wow, and she hadn't even had time to practice that one. Cindy seemed to think their silence was wondering awe. "I know! Isn't she beautiful! A shame so many little girls mistreated her. For all the Cherrys sold, only a few are available in such good condition these days."

"Well, I've certainly never seen anything like that," he stammered.

Thankfully, the lid was replaced a moment later as Cindy unleashed a heartfelt sigh. "I know you'll be happy where you're going, Cherry, but I will miss you, dear." After dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, she took on a surprisingly businesslike mien. "Three-fifty, dear, and no charge for the wrapping."

Tony was about to express amazement over the inexpensiveness of the doll when he realized his decimal point was in the wrong place and he was unable to hide a gasp in a coughing fit, though he carried on with the coughing fit until Ziva started slapping his back. He finally took a deep breath and apologized, "Sorry. Must be, uh, sawdust or something getting to me in here."

"No need to apologize. My husband has the same problem, so he never comes in the shop. But will that be check or charge, dear?"

"Uh…" He knew Ziva could sense his instinct to turn and flee because she was standing very close, blocking him with her body and a leg strategically positioned between his. Even she wouldn't be able to shoot down his argument that there'd been a strict fifty dollar limit set on Secret Santa gifts or that…Agnes Bromstead's family photo, sitting on the windowsill in her room at the nursing home filled his mind. "I hope you take AMEX."

One painful signature later, he carefully picked up what he sincerely hoped wouldn't be a very expensive case of holiday regret – the first not involving alcohol. That had to be some kind of cause for celebration, most likely with alcohol. He missed whatever Cindy said as he maneuvered between the crowded shelves toward the door. "Huh?"

"I was just saying that I hope your niece appreciates Cherry. I don't believe you mentioned her name."

Tony felt the tinkle of the entry bell chill his blood until Ziva piped up, "I am sure Emma will be thrilled with…Cherry."

"Ah, Emma is such a pretty name. Well, she's lucky to have such a nice aunt and uncle. Merry Christmas!"

"Yes, and to you." Ziva stepped out of the store, leaving Tony to smile awkwardly and offer his own season's greetings. She was slightly less cordial when she opened her trunk. "Remind me again why that charade was necessary?"

Still distracted by the cost of the package he was gently lowering into the car, he was struck by a sudden thought. "I think this thing may need a seatbelt if you're driving home."

"You are starting to scare me, Tony."

"Look, I'm gonna put it in the back and strap it in. I'm not blowing all that money just to have it go flying out the window on 95." She huffed with disgust but opened the door for him and lowered the seat. After he had completed the delicate operation of securely belting Knee-High Cherry Pie into the back seat, he had gathered himself enough to ask, "Emma?"

"Please, that was the easy part." She was kind enough not to peel out until he'd yanked his door closed. "Every fourth little girl is named Emma. The difficult thing was keeping a straight face when she said how much the doll was."

"Not the part where she ripped off the lid and revealed the Bride of Chucky?"

"I thought the doll itself was rather pretty. Not worth what you paid, but…perhaps if your thoughts about Delores Bromstead are correct, it will be worth much more."

He kept the tragic loss of his new subwoofer to himself as he tried to relax. Surprisingly, Ziva's driving was much less stressful than what he knew was waiting for him at the office. He glanced over his shoulder every so often to ensure that Cherry's box wasn't being jostled. If this didn't work, he prayed that Agnes didn't mention to her daughter that she'd discussed the doll with a nice man claiming to be an elementary school principal.


	3. Chapter 3

"But I have a receipt!" Tony brandished the paper in Ziva's face in spite of the fact that she was navigating the Navy Yard much faster than was advisable. He justified his action with the thought that she was probably still paying about as much attention to the road as she always did. "I can return her! Tell Cindy that some other relative beat us to the punch and…and…"

She shoved his hand out of her space. "If I have to bind you hand and foot, gag you with my bra and drag you upstairs by the hairs on your ass, you are delivering that doll to Delores Bromstead twenty minutes from now."

In spite of the disturbingly vivid image, he was able to say only, "You're not wearing a bra." He was then so focused on _that_ specific idea that the receipt for Knee-High Cherry Pie that had seemed so important just moments ago fluttered to the floormat as he hand did some unconscious wandering. The car lurched into the other lane when he gave the elastic a little snap. "Huh. Guess you will be able to gag me."

She swatted his hand away. "The temptation has often been present."

"So why're you just giving in now?"

"It has been a long drive back."

If he had any complaints about his butt being tired from the usual traffic jam on 395, he wasn't about to say anything to that effect now. She would probably have no problem extracting him from the car when they got back to… damn. "Let's do another lap around the Yard, look at the decorations."

"We can stay out here until it is time for your meeting if that will make you feel better."

He glanced at the red and white striped box, still belted safely in the back seat. "Just the three of us." He could feel the doll staring at him through the lid. "Look, we've got twenty minutes. How 'bout a drink? The place right outside the gate should be open. A little liquid courage may be just what the doctor ordered."

She eyed him suspiciously. "One drink?"

"That's what I said."

"And then you will give Delores her gift?"

"I'll even pay for your drink. Something good, top shelf."

"This is not an excuse for you not to deliver the gift. We will have one drink, then we will return."

"Yes. One. Then we'll come back and…" Not even the memory of Agnes Bromstead was enough to stop Delores' permascowl from popping unbidden into his head as decreasing intervals at this point. "Let's go get that drink."

A few minutes later, after ensuring that the car was locked to prevent a dollnapping, they took their seats on two stools in the deserted bar. The bartender didn't seem pleased to see them. "We're closing early. Gotta go see my kid in some Christmas pageant." He slapped a pair of cocktail napkins on the bar in front of them, grumbling, "Better be as cute dressed up as a sheep as my ex says."

"Uh, yeah, I'm sure she'll be great," Tony replied, earning a glare.

"He. What'll you have?"

"Yeah. Couple of," he glanced at the taps, "Stellas, please."

Ziva raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said top shelf cocktails."

"Hey, it's _imported_ beer." He lowered his voice to a whisper, "And the guy wants to get out of here. Make it easy on him."

"Hm." She clinked her glass against his when he offered. "And is this real Christmas spirit or are you putting on a show for my benefit?"

"Look, I," he paused as he glanced at the bartender, who had moved to the window where he was turning off the series of neon signs hanging there, "I was just asking for something he had to pour in front of us because he looked like he was gonna spit in our drinks, okay?"

"So you are faking, then."

He took a long drink of his beer. "You used to have a better handle on when I was faking it."

She dedicated the next five minutes to quickly finishing her drink in silence, leaving him to contemplate his impending doom. Ziva tapped her watch when he had one sip left. "It is time."

He slapped a twenty on the bar and walked toward the exit, hazarding a 'Merry Christmas' to the surly bartender. The sign was flipped from 'open' to 'closed' before the door had closed behind them. Tony called out to the nearly empty street, "Dead man walking!"

Ziva's hand in the small of his back directed him gently toward her car. "It will be fine."

As they turned back into the Navy Yard, he started to feel panicky. "I can't tell her I went to see her mom. She'll shoot me before she even opens the box! And that's assuming she doesn't shoot me once she does open the box!"

"I do not think Human Resources employees are issued sidearms."

"Well maybe her local gun shop owner is the only one who sees her smile." He noted that she was driving in a more controlled manner now. NCIS was just around the corner. "Are you going slow because you agree that these could be our last moments together? Will you promise to lay me out in a dignified position? And to make sure Ducky doesn't cover me with a sheet in Autopsy so the whole agency can truly appreciate what they've lost?"

"First of all, rigor mortis will not result in _that_ much stiffness and second…everything is going to be fine." She grasped his hand for a moment. "I will go up with you."

He wished the box weren't so big; he could have used some more hand-holding as they walked into the building. He did manage to angle his watch enough to check the time as they stepped into the elevator. "Hey, still two minutes to live. Let's hit the bullpen first. I can take off my coat so I can die comfortable."

"For the last time, it will be fine."

He looked around the bullpen, feeling nostalgic. "I should leave a little note for McGee, he'll like having the memento. Gibbs won't care, but just tell him thanks for everything because I…"

He felt his coat being pulled off his shoulders. "The drama is really getting old."

"Watch out! I almost dropped Cherry!"

Ziva shook her head and tugged him toward the stairs. "Time to go."

"Ziva, I really can't thank you enough for spending these last hours with me, it's…"

She interrupted as they stepped into the stairwell, "If you do not tell her you spoke with her mother, how do you intend to explain how you knew to get this specific doll?"

"I'll, uh…" He realized they were in front of Delores Bromstead's office door. "Ziva…"

"I am here."

A/n: Turns out I lied about this being three parts. Or, not _lied_ so much as made it the Arthur three instead of actual three.


	4. Chapter 4

Tony's steps felt surprisingly light, which was odd because it wasn't like the box had been _that_ heavy. He looked up as he stepped outside the building and blinked as snowflakes caught on his nose and eyelashes. "This reminds me of a movie. I bet you can guess which one."

To his surprise, Ziva wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. "That is the sweetest thing I have ever seen you do."

"You mean make a movie reference to…" He tried to turn, but she was holding him too tightly. He said over his shoulder, "I just bought her a doll. Can you really not think of something else I might have done? Recently?" He waited for her to let go, but she didn't. He added helpfully, "For you?"

"This was different." She let go and started walking toward her car, so he followed.

"Yeah, different. We drove for an hour and came home today with an overpriced toy. The other…thing took a little longer and involved more…"

She interrupted, "Would you like to have dinner?"

"Always, but first I want you to answer…"

She cut him off again, "You did not like Delores. Ever. You had no reason to try and improve her life in any way. But you did. And she was _so_ happy!" Turning away, she seemed to be speaking to her car as she continued, "You saved my life because you are my partner. That is different from what you did today."

Although he still wasn't sure he understood, he was smart enough to know the parking lot in a developing blizzard wasn't the proper place to try to continue the conversation. "So, what are you in the mood for? Because you might need reminding that it's Christmas Eve, so our options are gonna be limited, especially since we don't have reservations anywhere."

"I thought I could cook."

He tried not to sound too hopeful as he suggested, "Steak?"

"I will have to go to the market."

"Oh. Whatever you have in the house, then."

"We cannot make a meal of rice and black bananas."

"Was that your fruit of the month?"

She rolled her eyes. "Just meet me at my apartment in half an hour."

"No, I'll come to the supermarket with you."

"To what purpose?"

"I can, uh, push the cart. And split the cost," he added somewhat ruefully.

"No, this will be my gift to you." Brushing a hand through the snow that had collected on her windshield, she frowned. "Perhaps you could stop at the liquor store to save me the trip." He appreciated the view as she leaned into her car to write something on a piece of paper, which she then handed him along with some bills. "This should go well with steak."

"And if they don't have this?" he asked, trying unsuccessfully to hand back the money.

"Use your judgment."

His judgment led to the wine she'd asked for plus three others he liked and a bottle of champagne. He told himself it was just so they'd have options, as opposed to a reason to come over for more than one meal at some point in the future. Plus, they might be happening sooner rather than later if the snow didn't let up. He wondered if he should call her at the supermarket to remind her to pick up food that would last for more than just the night. She would probably take it wrong, maybe tell him to just go home if he was so worried about the weather. He left his unexpected-three-night-call-out bag in the trunk, in spite of the fact that the snow was already two inches deep in the street when he parked in front of her building. She could invite him to stay if she noticed that it was getting far too dangerous to drive, especially after sharing a bottle of wine. Or two. And some champagne.

Definitely too dangerous to drive. Because of the snow.

He thought it was strange that there were no footprints in the snow leading to the front door. Looking up and down the street, he realized that he didn't see Ziva's car anywhere. Emergency key time. The heavy bag in his arms was no so easily juggled as he felt around in his pockets, but at least he'd put her spare key on his keyring instead of the top drawer of his desk with the spare key McGee had reluctantly given him. He managed to let himself into the lobby of the building without dropping a single bottle, although he could feel the paper bag beginning to tear. It stayed together long enough to make it upstairs, but not all the way to Ziva's door. He needed two trips from the hall to the kitchen to bring in his cargo.

It wasn't until he had placed the bottles on the kitchen counter taken off his coat and shoes that he realized the potential significance of his situation. This was only the second time he'd been inside Ziva's new apartment and the first time he'd been in any private space of hers totally unsupervised, not including her desk, of course. Or purse or backpack, naturally. Or car. His eyes darted around the sparsely decorated living room. There was no telling how long he had before she got back, so… He opened the first door on his right and found a closet. Moving down the hall, he poked his head into a room containing a treadmill and cardboard boxes, then a bathroom. The medicine cabinet was tempting, but he could always have more time alone in the bathroom later. He took a deep breath and opened the last door.

The bedroom was simple, not giving any clear hints regarding the person who slept there, unless you were already familiar with her scent. He picked up a bottle from the dresser and was surprised to find that it was perfume. He gave it a little sniff. She obviously didn't wear this all that often. Too bad. He pulled open the top drawer and found that it stuck slightly. "Ooooh," he breathed, dipping his hand into an oasis of colored laces and satins and… Oh, God, if he got too clear a view of any of these he would be picturing her in them all night and then he'd have to leave no matter what kind of crazy storm was raging outside or have to suffer a slow, painful death while visions of Ziva wearing nothing but…he slammed her underwear drawer closed. Right. No more drawers.

His gaze swept the room until it landed on the nightstand. Okay, one more drawer.

His steps were slow as he approached, his socks making no noise on the hardwood floor. The drawer looked like it would be about half the size of the one he'd just searched and just as deep. There could be anything in there. _Weapons plus anything_, he corrected mentally, hoping it wouldn't be just weapons. He froze with his hand on the knob as the phone rang. Did she have security cameras or something set up in here? He tentatively answered, "Hello?" When no one replied, he tried again. "Hello? Ziva? Are you there?"

To his consternation, he was answered by a woman speaking in a strong New York accent. "So, are you gonna call me a dirtbag this time or do you have some other insult you'd like to test out?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are you Tony or aren't you?"

"Yeah, but…"

"Well, the last time we spoke you didn't let me say much because you were so busy telling me you were married to my Zivaleh and that I wasn't to call her again. Oy, how awful that was!"

"Oh, you're Aunt Nettie!" he exclaimed, hoping this was a better turn of events than Ziva catching him snooping in her bedroom. "I, uh, I'm really sorry about that. There was this misunderstanding and…"

"Such a nice bouquet of flowers you sent! I was so upset."

"You didn't like them?"

"Didn't I just say they were lovely?" Her voice abruptly rose in volume. "Morty, weren't they lovely flowers? What do you mean, what flowers? The flowers this young man sent me after he was rude on the telephone! Zivaleh's Tony! Oy, go back to your paper!" Tony wasn't sure if he had just been dropped into a Woody Allen movie as she continued to him, "Trust me, the flowers were lovely. I was upset that you weren't the husband, that there was no husband, the husband was a carrot hanging in front of my nose like my Grandpapa used to do with his donkey when it didn't want to pull its cart before he got the Chevrolet pick-up truck. He had those old pictures up all over the shop so people not from the neighborhood could see how long we'd been in business there, so they could see that we were part of the community, that we had roots. I don't suppose you've got any old-fashioned family places in your fancy Capitol Hill gated estates, such a shame."

"Well, there's this little Italian place I like that's been there since…"

She went on as if he hadn't spoken, "I hope you're not a skinny little thing. You people don't understand how to eat! Zivaleh was so thin and sickly the last time she visited us. Morty, didn't she look malnourished? Like she was living on bread and water! You should take her out to dinner more often, Tony, and make sure she has a nice big meal. And dessert! But she should be getting a package from my boys in a few days. I called the delicatessen long distance special to tell them what they should put together for her so she doesn't have to cook too much but still has food in the house for the nights she doesn't eat out with you."

"We don't really…"

"Well, it's been very nice speaking civilly with you, Tony, but if it's not too much trouble…"

"Oh, she's not here right now, but I can have her call you when she…"

He yanked the phone away from his ear as Aunt Nettie emitted a high pitched squeal. "So you did get married? Or are you getting married? Or just living together? Oh, she needs a good man and I know you'll take good care of her. Anyone who tries to protect her like you do, telling me to leave her alone because you thought I was a bad date, oh, this is so good to hear."

"We're not actually…we're just having dinner tonight and I got here first."

"But you got in? She gives you a key and lets you go to her apartment and answer her telephone? I've been married to Morty for almost forty-five years and he doesn't even let me drive his car! Such a worrier! I'm an excellent driver!" she added loudly in response to some disparagement Tony couldn't hear. "So, what are you lovebirds having for dinner? Something filling, I hope, something more than just a little salad or a turkey sandwich. You know, the last time she visited, just _after_ Passover, you know, missed seeing the boys who came special with their families just for my Seder, but we had lunch and all she ate was this little sandwich and she didn't even finish it! Took the rest home in a little box! I offered to cook her a nice meal, but she said she had to work and the next thing I hear, poof! She's back in Washington!"

Tony sat down on the bed as Aunt Nettie went on, describing how much she missed Brooklyn and seeing her grandchildren, but didn't regret emigrating to Israel after retiring and… He swung his feet up and leaned against the pillows. This was comfortable, but something was off. He scooted to the side of the bed opposite the nightstand. That was better. Actually, it was a little chilly in here, so it was silly to be on top of the puffy down comforter. He was just getting appropriately snuggly when he heard a terrifying noise. Throwing off the covers, he leaped out of bed and sprinted toward the bedroom door.

Ziva, still in her coat and holding several grocery bags, looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Why were you in my bedroom?"

"Oh, I…"

"And who is on the phone?"

Tony raised the phone, which had been hanging limply at his hip. "Sorry to interrupt your story, Aunt Nettie, but Ziva just walked in."

"Wonderful! Well, such a pleasure it's been talking to you. I'm sure we'll find lots more to talk about next time we…"

Tony didn't get to find out what would happen the next time, because Ziva had ripped the phone from his hand and was now pointing him angrily toward the bags she had put on the floor. Before she slammed her bedroom door, he was able to overhear, "Shalom, Aunt Nettie. Why are you up so late? No, he's…"

He decided it was best not to listen in to find out what he was, instead moving to put away the groceries. The steaks and potatoes looked good, but he was going to have to hope for the best where the asparagus was concerned. Maybe she'd just gotten that for tomorrow's dinner. Or something. He didn't feel like he was going to have much leeway for complaining.

By the time Ziva had finished her phone conversation half an hour later, he was ready with a glass of wine and what he hoped was an appropriately abashed look. She took a sip, checked the label on the bottle and frowned. "They did not have what I asked you to get?"

"Uh, they did. It's right here. I just thought this was a nice, uh, pre-dinner selection."

"It is not bad."

Why didn't she just drop the hammer? "Ziva, I thought maybe you were calling…"

"Why did you not just allow the machine to pick up?"

Glad the confrontation didn't sound like it was going to involve dismemberment, he gave her a lopsided grin. "You told me to use my judgment."


	5. Chapter 5

Tony sipped his third glass of wine, though he could probably count it as his first if he was measuring by which bottle it had come from, unless he… He concentrated on feeling very warm and comfortable as he sat at the kitchen counter in Ziva's apartment, watching her fix dinner. He'd tried to help, but he'd been forcibly removed from the proceedings after five minutes of honest effort that she claimed was intentionally counterproductive. It was probably for the best, as he would have just tossed the steaks in the oven rather than marinate them with the rest of the wine from the first bottle and some mysterious spices. Who knew cumin was more than just a decorative dust-gatherer on the spice rack? Come to think of it, had he ever used anything off the spice rack that hot secretary from Philly PD had given him the year she'd been his Secret Santa? Had he ever gotten particularly lucky with that? The Secret Santa, not the secretary, who had been a cold fish the one night they'd spent together. He always found it hard to have a good time with a woman who just wanted to lie there while he did all the work. Ziva would never just…

Damn dangerous wine-influenced thoughts. He tilted his head as she leaned down to place the steaks in the oven on a broiling pan. "Hmmmm."

"What?"

He stared guiltily at the tiled countertop. "Oh, I was just thinking…"

"About what?"

_Don't say 'your ass', don't say 'your ass,' don't say_… He took a sip of his wine to buy some time before saying, "Delores was really happy. Wasn't she?"

"Yes," she replied curtly.

Apparently he was going to be getting these brief answers until he took the bull by the horns. "You, uh, haven't yelled at me for picking up the phone yet."

"I have not yet decided if Aunt Nettie came to the conclusion that we are living together on her own based solely on your decision to answer the phone or if you offered any encouragement."

"I don't think she gave me enough time to say anything substantial."

"Sounds like her." She held out her empty glass and he refilled it. "This was a good choice."

"Italian, of course. All the best wines are."

She shook her head as if telling herself not to bother arguing, which was not what he'd expected. She seemed strangely reluctant to open any further conversation about Aunt Nettie. Just as he was about to apologize again for answering the phone, she asked, "Will you eat any of the asparagus if I make it?"

"Well, uh…"

"It is not healthy for you to eat so few vegetables."

"I'm okay with _some_ vegetables." He tried to peer into the tiny window on the oven door, but the light was off. "That wasn't just balled up foil you put in there to mess with me, right?"

"Potatoes are not a vegetable."

"They should be."

"Will you at least try eating some asparagus? You can slather it in Hollandaise so you will not even taste it."

"It'll still make my pee smell funny." After a beat and a disgusted grimace, he added, "Too much information."

She nodded. "Most likely a result of speaking with Aunt Nettie."

"Uh, how are you two related?"

"Vaguely. Her husband is my grandmother's distant cousin. She does tend to ramble on, but she has a good heart." She opened the oven for a moment, letting out a delicious aroma. "Something like you, I suppose."

He inhaled deeply before she shut the door. "I smell like steak?"

"No, you…forget it."

The look she was giving him was making him uncomfortable, so he stood and walked to the window across the room. "Really coming down."

"Perhaps you should go to your car and get your bag now."

"You, uh, you're inviting me to stay?"

"Based on how many glasses of wine you have had, you are not giving me much choice."

"I could drive just fine after a lot more than this. And by drive, I mean successfully call for a cab and sit comfortably in the back." He set his half-empty glass on the counter and walked toward the door. "Anyway, it's not so bad out here."

"In the hallway?" He turned and accepted his coat from Ziva. "Hurry up. The steaks will be ready in another two minutes."

He was still working on some clever parting words when he realized the door was closed and he was standing in the hall outside her apartment, holding his coat. Right. He would be allowed back in, wouldn't he? He'd left his keys inside so… He knocked on the door, which was opened a moment later. "I forgot my keys."

"I would have buzzed you back in."

"Well, it wouldn't've made much sense to get down there and not be able to get into my car." He reached past her to where he had left what he wanted on the small table inside the door. "Plus, I didn't wanna interrupt you doing kitcheny things."

"You mean like you are doing now?"

He leaned against the doorframe, dangling the keys from his finger. "You did say I had two minutes."

"Ninety seconds." He stumbled as she gave him a little shove. "Go."

"I'm…" The door closed before he could confirm his intention of leaving immediately. He took the stairs to maximize the time before he'd have to go out into the snow. It was deceptively pretty, fluttering down on the front walkway, filling in the footprints he'd…why weren't there any visible footprints? And where was his car? "Some storm," he muttered, taking a deep breath and rushing out the door.

Halfway through clearing thick, fluffy snow off his trunk, he remembered there was no reason for him to be holding his breath and exhaled. Was he really only on his third glass of wine? He quickly completed his task and retrieved his bag with a minimum of snow getting into the trunk. Knowing that it was a huge mistake the moment the thought entered his head, he collected a handful from the banister leading back up to the front door before letting himself in. His hands were red and cold by the time he arrived at Ziva's door. He dropped his bag, but didn't remove his coat; no reason to add an extra step on the very likely chance that she threw him out the door. Or window. Could he survive a fall from the third story? In spite of his strong instinct toward self-preservation, he was standing in the kitchen as Ziva looked into the oven. "I underestimated how long the steaks needed. How is the snow?"

"Oh, it's, uh, deep and, uh, cold…" He took one last opportunity to breathe before stuffing the handful of snow down the back of her shirt.

"Shit!"

He ducked just in time to miss catching a large fork in the face as she danced around the room on tiptoe, attempting to get the snow away from her skin. He was laughing too hard to duck again when something damp and blue caught him in the face. Wait, wasn't Ziva wearing a blue shirt? He pulled back the fabric to clear his field of vision. "Hello, blue shirt!"

His secondary instinct for looking at hot women wearing minimal clothing prompted him to follow the sound of a slamming door down the hallway. Self-preservation finally stepped in just as his hand contacted the doorknob. Okay, that was close. Of course, since he was already going to die, at least he could die happy. The door reopened before he'd confirmed that he really was going to charge into Ziva's bedroom while she was changing. "Okay, now you're definitely not wearing a bra."

His back hit the wall as she shoved him out of the way none too gently. "I suppose you can tell because I am cold, yes?"

"I, uh, thought maybe you were just, uh, excited?" He wasn't able to get a better look as she pulled on a sweatshirt that had been draped over the back of the sofa. "Look, I knew it was a bad idea, but how many chances do I really get to surprise you?"

She whirled on him with one of the evilest eyes he'd ever encountered, but it quickly softened. "You would be…surprised." Without so much as another shove, she walked back into the kitchen. "The steaks are ready."

As he finally slipped out of his coat, he had time to wonder why there was no bloodshed. He was not yet drunk enough to ask why, but given a few more glasses of wine… "Shouldn't you be threatening me with scary Moussad things right now?"

She passed a plate that contained two delicious looking steaks across the counter, effectively distracting him from asking any further questions that were likely to get him tortured. "Just put this on the table and sit."

In spite of the tempting aroma, he returned to pick up the baked potatoes while she uncorked the one bottle of wine she'd actually asked him to get. Although he knew more wine was probably not the wisest course of action at this point, he accepted the new glass without hesitation. If he was drunk when she did decide to attack, maybe it would dull the pain. She probably just didn't want too many leftovers.

He was well on his way to obliging this presumed motive when he realized it was probably rude to continue shoveling food into his mouth without making any attempt at conversation. "This is good."

She raised an eyebrow and finished chewing and swallowing a small mouthful. "Good. I was worried you were just hungry because it has been so long since we had lunch."

"S'really…" He made an effort to swallow a bite he probably should have cut in half. "Really good. Everything you make is good."

He knew he'd had too much to drink, because it almost looked like she was blushing when she said, "Thank you."

The meal continued in silence until he was unable to stop himself from saying, "I really would like to know why you aren't digging a shallow grave for me right now."

"Why would I…?"

He cut her off, "I talked to your aunt. I got comfy in your apartment, in your bed. I shoved snow down your back. You should be adding my internal organs to the menu instead of making sure my steak is cooked to my liking." He took another bite and spoke around it, "Which it is."

Her hand settled on his, so he loosened his grip on his fork. "After what you did today…"

"I keep telling you, that was nothing!"

"It meant everything!"

He found himself incapable of looking away. "Why do I get the feeling we're not talking about Knee-High Cherry Pie anymore?"

"Well…"

* * *

Nettie sat down beside the telephone without so much as a glance at Morty, who was still going on, "…not enough that we had to be up all hours. Now you have to call her at five in the morning! You know that DC is on the same time as Brooklyn!"

"I just want to find out…ssshh! It's ringing!"

"Ahh!" Morty waved his hand dismissively and went back to reading one of his many papers. Why he had to have so many papers each day…

The line abruptly connected. "Yes?"

"Shalom, Zivaleh! Still having a blizzard, are you? We get the satellite news, plus Benji called from the deli not long ago to tell me they got almost twenty-six inches! Such good boys, making sure the neighborhood still has a place to eat in such bad weather!"

"Aunt Nettie, it is not that I do not enjoy talking with you, but…"

"Why are you whispering? Speak up, Zivaleh! I'm not as young as I used to be!"

She sighed. "It is rather early here."

Suddenly hearing what she'd wanted, Nettie replied, "Yes, sorry. I just got so excited hearing about the snow. Well, I'll let you two sleep. Shalom!"

"Shalom."

Nettie clapped her hands together. "Morty, I heard snoring!"

"Poor girl even answers the phone in her sleep. That bastard Eli really did…" he trailed off in an angry mutter.

Ignoring the cynicism from her husband, Nettie bustled toward the kitchen. "I should make something nice to send them, my Mandel Bread maybe. Oy, and I'll have to double the size of the mishloach manot…"

"Purim isn't for two months!" Morty shouted from the living room.

Nettie was already gathering ingredients as she talked to herself, "If Tony likes my Mandel Bread, I'll have to see if he likes apricots so I know if he'll eat my Hamantaschen…"


End file.
